


when all hope is lost, hold out your hand

by hummingbird_salt



Series: Borrower!Vasquez [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Borrowers Fusion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, borrower au, borrower!vas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-18 18:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingbird_salt/pseuds/hummingbird_salt
Summary: He wants to believe Faraday will find him somehow, that all of this will be over soon.  But lying in a heap at the bottom of a cruel man's pocket, he struggles to even entertain the idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another reworked story I originally posted on tumblr. This first chapter is pretty much new, involving some things I only vaguely described in the first version. Here you'll see a bit of a time jump, with Vasquez and Faraday now well acquainted and traveling together.
> 
> Title is a paraphrased lyric from "Friends Will Be Friends" by Queen. ^_^

Vaguely, Faraday registers the faint sensation of Vasquez shifting around in his pocket, his tiny companion rising to stand inside the cramped space. One small hand pounds against his chest, and though it feels closer to a light tap, it's enough to get Faraday's attention.

Brow furrowed, he looks down to see Vasquez slumping against him dramatically.

"I'm _starving_ ," he says.

Faraday rolls his eyes. Looking back up, he continues settling Jack into his stall, giving the fiery horse a few calming strokes. The creature huffs, nosing against his face, but Faraday places his hands firmly on the intruding muzzle, nudging it away. While he realizes Jack has no dietary interest in Vasquez, he doesn't like the horse's teeth getting too close to him.

One hand still on Jack, he cups the other and holds it near his pocket, aware but untroubled that the protective gesture is bound to annoy Vasquez. He doesn't leave room for any protest about it, instead opting to address Vasquez's main source of discontent.  

"I swear, Vas, sometimes I think you eat more than I do."

Something jabs into his chest, most likely a tiny elbow.  

"If I eat so much, it's your fault," Vasquez argues, though Faraday can hear a tinge of humor in his voice. "Used to be, I had to work for my food, then you came along and decided to fatten me up."

Faraday snorts. "I _do_ apologize," he says. "Maybe we oughta do somethin' about your eating habits before you start puttin' a hole in my pocket."

Vasquez chuckles. "Not a chance, gigantòn."

Turning from the stall to make his way out of the stable, Faraday laughs with him. He strides into town, on a mission to find a good card game and a bite to eat.

 

* * *

 

"They've got cheap lunches in the saloon," Faraday says, casually peeking into the establishment.

He leans against a porch beam, pulling out a cigarillo as he ducks his head down. His eyes shift from side to side, ensuring that no one saw him talking in the direction of his pocket. Though he doesn't mind people thinking he's off his rocker, he'd rather avoid bringing anyone's attention closer to Vasquez's location.

Striking a match, he lights the cigarillo. His lips press snugly against tobacco paper as he speaks in a low, muffled tone.

"How's that sound?"

Vasquez responds with a dubious hum. "How many people?" 

Faraday glances through the space above the batwing doors, spotting several faces.

"Pretty full," he says. "Might be a few too many eyes."

Slipping food into his pocket is bound to get him some unwanted questions, and he doubts the barkeep would appreciate him taking his plate outside. In his time with Vasquez, he's found more and more that people are far too nosy for his liking.

"Sí," Vasquez agrees, sounding disappointed. He groans, and Faraday can feel him stretching out in a pitiful flollop. "I want to _eat_."

Someone passes by, giving Faraday a polite nod as they head into the saloon. He nods back, struggling to suppress a smile at his companion's behavior; Vasquez may be small, but the same most certainly can't be said for his personality.

With the stranger out of earshot, Faraday looks down toward his pocket again.

"You will," he assures. "Maybe they've got some food storage you could sneak your way into."

Though he can't see him, Faraday can feel Vasquez perk up at the thought, his changed mood evident in a small but enthused shuffle inside the pocket. Smoke billowing all around, Faraday allows himself a fond smile.

"Get in there," Vasquez tells him, nudging insistently against the vest fabric.

"Alright, keep your damn pants on." Faraday laughs softly. "Assumin' we do find a storage room, I reckon we should decide the best way to get you into it."

Vasquez groans again. "I lived in a place like this for three _years_ , güero," he says impatiently. "I think I can figure it out."

Faraday opens his mouth to argue but immediately thinks better of it. Questioning Vasquez's ability to do things is never wise, and it would be downright stupid with the man so irritable and hungry. Shaking his head, he steps away from the porch beam.

"Okay, I'm goin'," he says.

He isn't sure when he became so beholden to the wishes of a man several times smaller than he is, but strangely, it doesn't trouble him. Not long ago, Vasquez had been living a life with far too many limitations, confined and alone. It's been an unexpectedly gratifying experience, bringing him out into the world, allowing him to see more than he ever would've dreamed.

Though he grouses from time to time, Faraday knows there aren't many things he wouldn't do for Vasquez. As he pushes through the batwing doors, intent on sneaking his companion into a storage room that only potentially exists, he can't help musing at the strange direction life has taken him.

 

* * *

 

A few questions to the barkeep are all Faraday needs to confirm the existence and location of the storage room.

Upon entering the saloon, he immediately notices two cased openings on the wall, each on opposite sides of the bar. He isn't able to see anything beyond short, angled passageways, one positioned toward the left and the other toward the right, but he quickly surmises that the one on the right must connect to the adjacent inn.

After ordering a whiskey, he decides to play clueless.

"That lead to the inn?" He asks, gesturing toward the left passageway with his glass.

The barkeep, a dark-haired woman with an even darker disposition, glances to the side. She looks at him with barely restrained exasperation, and Faraday gets the feeling that stupid questions are a common occurrence in her life. Hardly surprising, given the amount of time she must spend around inebriated travelers and townsfolk.

"You're pointin' in the wrong direction," she tells him, nodding her head toward the opening on the right.

Faraday hums at that, waiting a moment before speaking again. "Where's that one lead, then?"

She sighs, halfheartedly polishing a glass. "Food storage."

He nods, lifting his glass to take a drink. Inside his pocket, Vasquez shifts around, clearly running out of patience. Faraday bows his head a bit, swiping one hand over his mouth to cover a smirk.

The barkeep looks at him again, and for a moment Faraday thinks he'd failed to hide his amusement. But all she does is point toward the entrance, asking him, "Y'need me to tell you where that leads, too?"

Though he's fully aware her words are meant to insult him, Faraday just smiles, shaking his head.

"No, ma'am."

She rolls her eyes, stepping away to attend to other patrons.

Faraday doesn't waste the opportunity. Drink in hand, he turns to sweep his eyes over the room, taking in a small crowd of faces. The saloon is hardly bustling, but it isn't all that quiet either. Casual conversation fills the air, soft but constant, intermingled with the ordinary noises you'd hear in any old watering hole.

The windows on the building are scarce in number and overdue for a wash, allowing for little more than a dim, golden light inside the saloon. Faraday is grateful for the shadows and the simple distraction of everyday chatter, as well as the lack of attention on him. While he suspects most people wouldn't care about a man sneaking into a storage room, he finds it best not to rely on presumed indifference. More often than not, people will decide to care about something at the worst possible moment.

Thumb hooking under his belt, he steps slowly and casually toward the opening on the left. He keeps his eyes on the room as he steps backward into the passageway, turning his head to check if the storage room is occupied. With nobody in sight, he walks quietly into the closet-like space, eyeing a series of crowded shelves.

There are jars filled with far too many pickled items to identify, some nuts and cheese, jerky and dried fruit, and several other things that are sure to make Vasquez a very happy man.

Setting his whiskey glass down on one of the middle shelves, Faraday reaches carefully into his pocket, and Vasquez responds eagerly to the offered hand.  He crawls swiftly over Faraday's fingers and into his palm, allowing himself to be scooped up.  Faraday sets him gently next to the whiskey glass, and Vasquez surveys his options, even craning his neck to see the highest shelves.

"Turns out it was pretty easy to get you in here," Faraday says, keeping his voice low.

Vasquez looks at him, nodding. "Sí, just like I said."

Faraday narrows his eyes, though his expression is good-natured.

" _You_ told me you would figure it out," he says. "But as I recall from, oh, five seconds ago, you were sittin' all cozy in my pocket while I snuck in here."

"A harrowing experience, was it?" Vasquez asks in a wry tone. "And that cozy pocket of yours is hot, cramped and filled with crumbs."

Faraday rolls his eyes. "You know damn well those crumbs are from the last time you ate in there, Vas."

Seeming uninterested in even a lighthearted argument, Vasquez waves his hand dismissively, returning his attention to the various food items. Faraday considers asking if he should grab anything in particular, but quickly decides against it. While his assistance is often appreciated, or at least tolerated, he knows how ill-tempered Vasquez gets when unnecessary help is offered.

On his bad days, he'll even grumble when Faraday's aid is clearly needed, and what should've been an easy situation turns into a damn headache. It's a tricky thing, dissuading Vasquez from overexertion, all the while resisting the urge to physically stop him. Thankfully, in this case, Vasquez is perfectly capable on his own.

Faraday reaches into another pocket, pulling out a small pack and setting it next to Vasquez. Along with a few basic items, the pack contains Vasquez's climbing gear, something which should come in handy traversing all the shelves.

Vasquez gets right to work unpacking the gear, and Faraday regards him fondly.

"You good in here for a while?"  He asks.

Vasquez nods. "Don't worry about me," he says. "I know you're itching to get some cards in your hand, so go win some money for us, huh?"

Faraday grins. "If you insist."

Grabbing his whiskey, he turns to head back into the saloon. He pauses after a step, then twists around on his heel, reaching toward the pack on the shelf. The tips of his thumb and finger burrow in slightly, and Vasquez eyes him curiously.

"Can't let you have an incomplete meal," Faraday explains.

He pulls out the small tin cup Vasquez had fashioned for himself years ago, pinching the object between his fingers. Bringing it toward his whiskey glass, he dips it in before placing it carefully on the shelf.  

Vasquez smiles, nodding in thanks. "Good luck out there, güero."

Tipping his hat, Faraday turns to step out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 As it happens, Faraday's luck is very good indeed.

He ends up playing cards with a mixture of locals and other drifters like himself, an easygoing group for the most part. They smoke and drink, and Faraday buries his glee at what a painfully transparent lot they are. He's cautious, of course; feigned lack of skill is a fairly common bluff, and he never lets his guard down. He has a good feeling about this game, though, and a feeling like that is one he's always quick to chase.

While there are some grumbles here and there, the mood remains light, marred only by the sour-faced man sitting across from him. He doesn't share in a single moment of levity, and Faraday suspects he only has eyes for the bills and coins crowded in the middle of the table. As everyone at the table has the same focus, Faraday doesn't take issue with the man's fixation.

But even in the company of the most humorless sort, Faraday can find a reason to laugh, and he sees no excuse for such a foul mood in the presence of amiable men. His opinion of the man is hardly favorable, only falling lower with the progression of the game.

In the end, Faraday's upturned hat is filled with everything wagered. The others are dismayed, but they all shrug off the loss with a shake of the head and a hefty swig down the gullet.

All but one of them, that is.

Faraday isn't surprised when the man sitting across from him sneers, nor is he surprised when his ears catch a muttered accusation of cheating. It's to be expected, though he does take offense. When he cheats, he hardly feels it necessary to target earnest, wide-eyed sorts, or irritable men who care too much about the prize to bother giving strategy much effort. No, he has more than enough skill to fall back on for gambles like this.

But the man is unconvinced, angry enough on his own and spurred on by the drinks he's imbibed throughout the afternoon. He's loud, red-faced and Faraday doesn't pay him much mind.  Surrounded by a cloud of smoke, he leans back, calmly advising the man to take the loss with some dignity. The others voice their agreement, and the man walks off in barely contained fury.  

It's funny how a mind gets scrambled in the midst of outrage, especially when alcohol is added to the equation.

Faraday fails to observe this as the man leaves the table, or at least it doesn't register in his own mind. He isn't paying attention, isn't really watching as the tipsy idiot stumbles his way toward the wrong side of the bar, stepping into the storage room instead of the inn.

Grinning, Faraday does his best to charm his way into another game.  He assures his opponents that his luck can't last forever.

 

* * *

 

Climbing on a rope from one shelf to the next, Vasquez is unprepared when heavy footsteps approach from behind. The passageway is short, only requiring few steps for the enviably long stride of a human, and Vasquez knows he doesn't have time to think things over.

He drops to the shelf below, rolling across the surface and steadying himself on hands and knees. There's a nervous, jittery sensation coursing through his body, one he's grown accustomed to after years of hiding. Traveling with Faraday, he hasn't felt it as often, and its return is decidedly unwelcome.  His heart pounds, picking up speed, and he searches frantically for a good spot to hide.    

The footsteps come to a halt. Vasquez throws himself behind the nearest jar, creating more noise than he means to. He cringes, curling away from sight as best he can.

An unfamiliar voice meets his ears. "What in the...?"

Vasquez curls in even tighter, gut clenching. Maybe he hasn't _really_ been seen; at most, the stranger only caught a glimpse, and humans rarely believe a glimpse. Pressing his hands against the jar, he listens intently. He can only hope this man isn't the curious sort, and that he'll be dismissed as a mouse or something entirely imagined.

His heart sinks low when the footsteps resume, coming closer. He hears the taut rustle of fabric, the slight twisting of boots against the floor, and realizes the unseen man must be crouching down.

Breathing as quietly as he can, Vasquez doesn't move a muscle. He waits, heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. Though his body remains still, his eyes shift around, darting this way and that to find some sort of escape. But the small room is sealed, cramped and tight with only one exit.

He feels a prickling sensation make a path down his spine, a subconscious warning of imminent danger. Lifting his gaze, he nearly recoils at the sight of large fingertips resting on top of the jar. They slide down to grip the lid, and Vasquez scurries backward as the object is scooted to the side, glass grinding sharply against wood.

The stranger's eyes find him, going wide before narrowing in disbelief.

Vasquez doesn't freeze. Devoid of any useful options, he refuses to give any thought to how slim his chances are of escaping the situation. He jumps to his feet, dashing behind other items on the shelf. Maybe he can manage this, slipping in and out of sight, biding his time until he comes up with a better plan.

An onslaught of heavy objects shatter his brief spark of optimism, everything shoved clumsily aside by the man's forearm. Vasquez's path is obstructed, making him stumble down hard on his knees. He presses his hands against the shelf for some stability, groaning in pain.

Before he can even think past the ache in his knees, an unmistakable weight settles over his body, harsh and overpowering. The stranger's hand achieves a quick, easy capture, massive fingers sliding beneath Vasquez before pinning him hard against a downward-facing palm.

"Mmph!" Vasquez squirms, muffled and restrained.

While he knows from his experience with Faraday that a human's nature can't always be judged at the start of things, he's certain this man won't surprise him with kindness. The fingers around him press in tight, gripping his form like a pile of stones. Faraday has never handled him so roughly, not even during their first tumultuous meeting when he'd briefly doubted that Vasquez was even real.

The world spins around as the palm turns upward, fingers lifting off to reveal him more clearly. Splayed out across the man's palm, Vasquez curls in, uncomfortable as large eyes bore down and examine him. There's an ache in his side from when he'd been grabbed, nothing severe but he expects some bruising.  

He averts his gaze as the man holds him even closer, staring in astonishment.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

He exhales with the words, and Vasquez scrunches his face at the hot scent of booze that falls over him. Faraday's breath often smells the same, but he has enough courtesy to refrain from holding Vasquez so close to his face. The man looming over him has no such consideration, eyes piercing down intently. He lifts his other hand to prod a finger into Vasquez's stomach, as if testing that he really exists.  

Vasquez tenses, wincing at the touch. He slides an arm over his belly, staring up in apprehension.

"Don't," he says cautiously, uncertain how the man will react if he sounds too demanding. It doesn't escape his notice that he's far more timid now than he had been when Faraday first discovered him, and the reason isn't hard to figure out. Things are different now; his whole _world_ is different. Should things go downhill, there's far more to miss and far more to lose.

Fortunately, the man doesn't seem angry, but he does look surprised.

"Fuckin' hell, you can _talk_ ," he says.

Vasquez tries hard not to seethe at the words, barely succeeding. While he doesn't consider the ability to speak all that crucial to intelligence--he's heard enough people, both humans and borrowers, run their mouths when they should've been thinking instead--he doubts this human feels the same. It's clear from his reaction that he hadn't thought Vasquez's mind to be any more sophisticated than an animal's.

Still not wanting to behave rashly, Vasquez holds in several words about the irony of having his intelligence judged by someone so stupid; regardless of size, it shouldn't come as a shock to anyone that a living, breathing man can speak. He wants to shoot the enormous bastard straight in the eye, but he refrains.

"Yes, I can," he answers calmly. "And I'd appreciate you putting me down."

The man quirks one brow, glancing at the floor then turning back to look at Vasquez.

"Would you now?"

Vasquez feels his stomach twisting. Though he knows the question is far from genuine, he gives a small nod.

"Well... I'm afraid that's not gonna happen," the man tells. "The way I see it, puttin' you down means lettin' you run off like you were tryin' to do a minute ago."

Vasquez shakes his head. "I won't run."

"Bullshit," the man shoots back. "I can see how badly you wanna get away from me. But I'm not about to let that happen." 

Heart racing, Vasquez swallows. There's nothing he can do or say, held high above the ground by a man who doesn't give a shit what he wants. But he needs to do something, _anything_ to at least give himself some time.

"Why?" He blurts out. "What do you want with me?"

The man smiles. "Don't know just yet. But I _do_ know you're somethin' special..." His smile widens, showing teeth. His liquor-tinged breath cascades down again, as he speaks a low, self-satisfied tone. "Folks pay big when it comes to gettin' a look at special things. You could be _very_ good for me."

Vasquez clenches his jaw, struggling not to show his panic. His mind searches desperately for another question, but it seems the man is done explaining himself.

He rises to his full height, the speed of the movement causing a brief surge of nausea in Vasquez's stomach. Before he's even adjusted, everything twists around again, fingers gripping the sides of his torso. He dangles for a moment, arms and legs flailing. A coat pocket comes into view, and the man shoves him in, hand remaining in the already cramped space as a precaution.

Breathing hurriedly, Vasquez rises to his knees inside the pocket. He doesn't expect to manage any sort of escape, but he can't bear to take things lying down. Everything sways, rising and falling as the man walks forward. With each heavy footfall, the casual noise inside the saloon grows louder, lively and constant. The man strides through the room, moving past several tables as voices filter in through the fabric of his coat.

Vasquez perks up when he hears a familiar laugh.  His hands clutch the fabric around him, and he lifts his gaze toward the opening of the pocket, ears catching the blessed sound of Faraday's voice. His friend is sitting right on the other side of his woven prison, practically within reach. Vasquez doesn't waste his only opportunity.      

"Güero! _Güero_!!"

Before he can cry out again, the man's hand takes hold of him, giving him a rough squeeze.  His body goes slack and his breath hitches sharply, overwhelmed by the strong, stifling pressure. He manages to struggle a bit, wriggling in a useless effort as he shouts desperately, growing more and more frantic with every muffled word.

The man's hold never relents, keeping firm around Vasquez as he exits the saloon.


	2. Chapter 2

Something moves along the floor, obscured in shadow but making its presence known with a series of quick scuttles. Vasquez would guess that the noise belongs to several legs, and the distinct chitter of pincers makes him all the more certain. He holds his own legs close, curling in tight.

Whatever might be skittering in the dark is the least of his concerns; insects are a mere nuisance, laughably benign when compared to his current enemy. Vasquez can hear him now, his captor, moving slowly around the room. Boots clunk heavily as he conducts a careful search.

Tucked in a corner beneath the bed, Vasquez can only hope he isn't found.

He's made various escape attempts over the past several hours, and all he has to show for his efforts are a long series of failures and a highly agitated human. But he remains determined, no matter how many setbacks fall in his path.   

They won't be in this town much longer; the man had only stopped to rest and resupply, and Vasquez knows he can't afford to waste whatever chances come his way. Traveling out in the middle of nowhere offers no opportunities for someone his size to go off alone, with hardly any place to hide and no means of survival. Their next stop may very well be where his captor chooses to reveal him, charging folks for the chance to witness his new discovery. He intends to make a handsome profit, subjecting Vasquez to a multitude of gawking faces.

This town is all he has, possibly the only hope left for his freedom.

With so much at stake, Vasquez can't help feeling disheartened at the predictable nature of his hiding place. It's the worst he's tried so far, but he hadn't intended to conceal himself in such an obvious spot. He'd been caught off guard, forced to make a quick decision by the unexpected haste of his captor's return.

There's nothing to be done about it now. With the man so near to his location, bound to find him at any moment, he can only wait.

Massive boots thud against floorboards, roaming all around before reaching the bed in the corner. The man casts a long shadow in the dimly lit room, the dark shape stretching to cover dull beams of sunlight filtering in through a small, dusty window. The boots settle where they are, and Vasquez gazes through the narrow space between the floor and the bed frame, hardly daring to breathe.

He hears the scuttling creature from before, watching as it makes its way out from the safety of their shared refuge. It creeps along, painfully unaware of the danger close at hand. For a moment, all is quiet, the silence interrupted only by gentle chittering.

Vasquez flinches when the insect is crushed under the man's boot, killed in one hard stomp. His shoulders tense as he clenches his jaw, staring forward in apprehension. The boot twists and scrapes the remains of its skittering victim, and Vasquez feels his gut churn. It takes every bit of his self-control not to jump when the man sinks down to the floor, settling on his knees to peer under the bed.

Vasquez keeps his head down, breath halting in his lungs. Stock-still, he prays the darkness will cover him, that the man will fail to notice his huddled form and simply move on. As he waits, the seconds seem to pass at an agonizing pace.

His heart twists up tight when he hears the rumble of his captor's voice.

"There you are, _runt_."

Vasquez releases the air held in his lungs, shuddering with the exhale. He hugs his knees to his chest, refusing the look at the man's snarling face. There's nowhere to run, no use in trying to pull off a desperate escape.

The man grabs hold of the bed, moving it to the side with far greater force than necessary. The bed legs scrape against the floor, screeching in Vasquez's ears, and one of them rams straight into his side. He rolls clumsily out of its path, landing with a hiss on solid wood and a thick layer of dust.

As he groans on the floor, the man steps closer. Vasquez squeezes his eyes shut, not even bothering to move as he awaits the inevitable.

The strong hand that grips him, descending fast and taking him effortlessly into its harsh grip, comes as no surprise; it's a sickeningly familiar sensation, one that never fails to remind him how little control he really has. His ascent is swift, seeming to leave his stomach behind for a moment, and he struggles to bury a wave of nausea.

Massive fingers wrap around him even tighter, and there's something unmistakably spiteful in the way they squeeze him, going beyond his captor's usual roughness. Vasquez gasps, squirming in the man's hold, his small hands clawing at calloused skin.  The pressure only grows. His lungs burn, searching for air, and his struggles do nothing against the enveloping fingers. A pitiful noise escapes his lips, sounding from his throat like a choked off whimper.

Everything around him seems to blur, vision tunneling as his eyes brim with tears. His body goes still, even as his instincts scream to keep fighting. Hands twitching weakly, he pants out another choked gasp, insides feeling like fire. As the world starts to fade, his head lolls onto the surface of skin surrounding him.

Before he can reach any blessed escape from pain, the grip loosens, and Vasquez pulls in several urgent breaths. He trembles, curling in on himself, or trying to at least. The hold on him is still uncomfortably firm, if no longer suffocating. For a moment, all he does is try to calm his breathing, some small, wishful part of his mind hoping that his captor is finished now.

Lifting his gaze, Vasquez cranes his neck to see the man's face. His briefly held dream of a tolerable end to this failure is promptly stamped out.

There's a dark expression on the man's face, something far more dangerous than mere agitation. Upon meeting Vasquez's timid gaze, his eyes narrow as his face twists up in a sneer.

"You scared?" He asks. "Shakin' in your little boots?"

Vasquez doesn't answer. He directs his focus toward each and every arduous breath, his body aching from the sensation.  

"You oughta be, 'cause I've _had it_ with this shit."

As he speaks, his face is far too close for comfort, and his fingers keep Vasquez pinned.

"Might've been funny at first, watchin' a little thing like you try and scamper off, but now you're just gettin' on my nerves."

A small part of Vasquez feels some pride at his actions having such an irritating effect, but his better judgment pulls him back. His amusement isn't worth the cost, not with the position he's in, but there are times his hatred of the man creates a bit of a blind spot in terms of his own safety.   

His captor continues, disdain showing in his eyes. "You think you're so goddamn smart when you scurry off, but I see the look on your face every time I catch you. You're nothin' but a terrified _pest_."

Vasquez swallows, barely suppressing a flinch at the words. He knows they aren't true, but self-assurance has a way of eluding him in this man's oppressive hold.

The man shakes his head. "And you ain't worth all this trouble."

He regards Vasquez for a moment, seeming occupied with a sudden thought. Vasquez doesn't have a clue what might be going through his mind, but he knows it can only be something unpleasant. He stares up at him, shifting uncomfortably in his palm.

"You're not gonna stop runnin' from me... no matter how pointless it is," the man says. "You'll take _every_  chance you get."  

He says the words as if he's only just realized them to be true, as if he's made some sort of revelation. Vasquez almost wants to laugh, but it isn't funny. There's nothing impressive about this man, nothing complimentary to be said about his intellect. That he should have total control over Vasquez's life, after drunkenly stumbling into the right place at the right time, is downright infuriating. It's a cruel, humiliating reality that digs in deep, making Vasquez want to rage and shout against a world that won't relent.

He glares at the man, nails digging into thick skin.

"You're always stupid enough to let me slip away," he replies, giving an unfriendly smile. "Why would I ever stop doing something so _easy_?"

Taunting his captor is a rash move, one he knows he'll regret, but he's so damn sick of the enormous bastard. The fingers surrounding him lift away, releasing their grip entirely. Vasquez curls in just slightly on the open palm, knowing better than to celebrate.

He's unprepared when the man's other hand comes into view, and two fingers sail down to prod into his ribs. The forceful touch is more concentrated than the previous grip had been, digging into his small form. He cries out, kicking aimlessly as he tries to arch against the pressure, and a slew of desperate noises pass through his lips.

The man pays his struggling no mind, holding him closer as he speaks.

"You listen to me," he spits out. "To do what I'm planning, I need you alive, and _only_ alive. I don't think you get that."

Vasquez groans, pinned down hard and squirming. He pounds a fist against the man's fingers, fighting for release and lashing out in rage. The man tuts at the action, staring down in disapproval. Slowly, the fingers pull away, but Vasquez is aware that it's no sign of mercy.

"No, it hasn't really sunk in for you," the man decides. "And I say it's high time I made myself clear..."

On his side and clutching his ribs, Vasquez hardly processes the words. A small, confused moan escapes him when he feels the hand tilt, the large palm turning at an angle that causes him to slide. Beneath him, the rough surface of skin disappears, and he finds himself dangling upside-down, his left ankle held between finger and thumb.

He twists around awkwardly, wincing at the ache in his ribcage. As the world sways and the blood rushes to his head, he pulls in a nervous breath, heart picking up speed. He's disoriented, unable to find an explanation as his eyes search frantically. His confusion only grows when the man's other thumb and forefinger move to grip the leg as well, holding it firmly. He tenses, feeling his gut clench uneasily.  

"What—" He begins, but he isn't given a chance to finish.

The grip on his leg suddenly tightens, forceful and twisting, and all he can do is cry out in distress. Heart hammering in his chest, his body writhes while the pressure grows, excruciating and _bending_ and—

He screams.

Hanging by a newly broken leg, he screams and thrashes and twists, even as the pressure relents. He's pulled up and laid across the man's palm, settled on his belly.  Eyes filling with tears, he pulls in small, shallow breaths. His hands curl into fists, clenching hard as he trembles in his captor's hold.

"Now you see where tryin' to run off gets you," the man says, sounding awfully pleased with himself. "Maybe now you'll understand who you belong to."

Pressing his face into calloused skin, Vasquez growls, "¡Hijo de puta!"

His leg throbs sharply, squelching the intensity of his anger as a hitched sob is pulled from his throat. Only now, after the words have left his mouth, does he consider how little his captor will appreciate the defiance.

He lifts his gaze nervously, already knowing he won't like what he sees. With one look at the man's eyes, he's filled with regret.

The hand tilts. A new surge of panic runs through him as he slides down again. He remains upright this time, stomach sick with dread as his left arm is pulled into a tight grip. Rough, merciless hands surround him, closing in tight.

"You've also gotta learn to shut that damn mouth of yours," the man snarls.

Vasquez struggles as much as he can with his freshly injured leg.

"N-no—" He doesn't think he can take any more pain, and the words come out frantically. "I'm sorry, please—!"

With one twist, Vasquez is screaming again. Though his instincts urge him to writhe and curl, his leg protests the action. His body goes rigid, then limp. Vision blurring, he sprawls across the expanse of skin.

The man doesn't bother speaking again, apparently satisfied. With an air of casual indifference, he slips Vasquez into his pocket and lets the pain speak for itself.

The fabric is tight and heavy around Vasquez, and his already aching limbs burn from the added pressure. Whimpering, he tries to shift into a more bearable position. He settles in discomfort, setting his focus on each slow breath.

Not for the first time, his thoughts drift to Faraday, edging between hope and despair as to the man's whereabouts. While Vasquez's disappearance wouldn't have gone unnoticed, there's no reason to believe Faraday has any idea what had caused it. Most likely, the man had searched high and low for him all around the town they'd been passing through, and eventually given up.

He wants to believe Faraday will find him somehow, that all of this will be over soon. But lying in a heap at the bottom of a cruel man's pocket, he struggles to even entertain the idea.

 

* * *

 

From the moment Faraday walks into the storage room, something feels off.

A thick strand of thread hangs from one of the lower shelves, the attached hook pierced firmly in a wicker basket. Several items are scattered on the bottom shelf, some having spilled onto the floor. It's unusual for Vasquez to leave his climbing equipment out in the open, but that oddity is easy enough to dismiss; Vasquez couldn't have known it was Faraday approaching the room, and he was probably forced to hide in a hurry.

But all the objects that are strewn about—most of them far too heavy for Vasquez to have any chance at moving them—leave an uneasy feeling in the pit of Faraday's stomach.

In a low voice, he calls out for Vasquez, repeating his friend's name when he doesn't get a response. Even after another repetition, this one far more troubled than the last, Vasquez doesn't answer.

Faraday gets straight to work searching the shelves. Something pulls at his mind but he ignores it, hands pushing objects to the side as his eyes move frantically. He looks in every spot, every last little corner, but all he finds is Vasquez's travel pack.

He swallows, gently lifting the object. His companion is nowhere to be found, and with no desperate search to distract him, Faraday has to accept an awful, nagging thought. Vasquez couldn't have caused the mess, and he never would've left the storage room without his belongings.

Someone else was here, and Vasquez is gone.

Refusing to get caught up in how much that terrifies him, Faraday lets his mind drift backward, searching through recent memories. It's possible he'd seen whoever walked in here, and if he can recognize them, he can find them. For a moment, his thoughts are derailed as he considers what he'll do to that person if he does seek them out, but he's quick to refocus.

Until now, the day has been slow and easygoing, undisturbed by anything out of the ordinary. He does his best to recall something significant, anything that stands out among the good-natured conversations and the afternoon's pleasant, smoke-filled haze. It doesn't take long for an image to spark in his mind, a sour face he hadn't expected to think about ever again.

His only bitter opponent, so convinced he'd been cheated, storming off in a rage. Where had he wandered to? Faraday had thought the bar, but looking back, he doesn't remember seeing him there. Surely, if the man had been standing across from the table, Faraday would've had a few nasty looks sent his way.

But all he can remember is the man striding away in a petulant huff, soon after returning without a hint of his previous anger. Only minutes before, he'd been irate, red-faced and sneering, but he'd returned with a placid expression. Returned from somewhere unknown, just the one hand stuffed into his coat pocket, his mood inexplicably changed.

Without another thought, Faraday slips Vasquez's pack and thread into his vest pocket, walking out of the storage room and leaving the saloon.

He goes around town, asking if anyone has seen the man recently, or if they know where he might be. Most tell him to check at the inn, but an inquiry there gets him no answers. Eventually, he finds himself back at the livery, where he gives a description of the man to the stableboy.

Nodding as the man is described, the boy informs him that he'd come back for his horse about an hour ago. He'd left town in a rush, seeming pleased about something.

Faraday barely restrains his panic upon hearing this, immediately telling the boy he'll be leaving as well. He brushes off a well-intentioned warning about the day's dwindling sunlight, making his way over to Jack's stall. As he leads the horse out of the stable, he asks the boy which direction the man had gone, nodding in thanks at the answer.

Faraday rides swiftly out of town, unwilling to delay the search for his companion.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Vasquez is lying in an aching heap at the bottom of a saddlebag, cringing each time the motion of his captor's horse jostles his injured body.

The already scarce amounts of light streaming into the bag have been fading for the past hour, and Vasquez knows the man will be making camp soon. He hopes he'll be able to get some rest when the chaotic motion finally comes to a halt.

When the horse does slow its stride and eventually stop, Vasquez releases a quivering sigh, his stomach clenched from the day's uncomfortable journey. He hears his captor dismount and hit the ground firmly. The twisting sensation in his belly isn't improved when the man opens up the saddlebag and sneers down at him in that unpleasant, familiar way.

"Water?" The man asks, looking annoyed at having to do so. Vasquez's needs are only taken into account because he's no good to the man dead, and even then the attention towards his well-being is kept to an absolute minimum.

"Yes." His stomach protests, but he knows he'll only feel worse if he forgoes water in the stifling confines of the saddlebag.

"Food?"

He thinks perhaps he should, but the thought of eating makes him queasy.

"No."

As usual, the man lowers his canteen into the bag, setting it down at a slant so the remaining water is near the opening, but not spilling out. So far, he hasn't bothered with any sort of makeshift cup for Vasquez, indifferent to any needs that go beyond basic survival. Initially, this had only been an inconvenience, but with two broken limbs, getting a drink of water takes considerable effort.

Thankful that at least the top is already unscrewed, Vasquez slowly pushes himself to a sitting position, leaning with a grimace toward the canteen. He scoots himself forward, biting harshly at his lip.

Close enough now, he reaches his good arm in, hand shaking slightly from the vague twinge of nausea in his gut. With a light _sloshing_ noise, he brings his hand back towards the opening. He drinks hesitantly, knowing he needs it but not enjoying it in the least. The water feels jarring in his warm, dry throat, and trickles uncomfortably into his stomach. With a groan, he scoops another handful and forces himself to drink more, taking careful sips so as not to overwhelm himself.

When he's finished, he grabs the top and pulls it up with great difficulty. The object is heavy and awkward in his one usable hand, but somehow, he manages to place it firmly at the opening. He screws it back on, feeling far more exhausted than he cares to acknowledge by the end of it.

Trying to ignore the uneasy settling of water in his belly, and the sharp ache in his arm and leg, he settles back down. His eyes fall shut as he focuses his attention on the distant crackling of his captor's campfire.

Breath pulling in slowly, he allows himself to drift, his need for rest no longer impeded.

 

* * *

 

A sudden throb of pain pulls Vasquez from his sleep, making him jolt awake in disorienting darkness.

Hazily, he realizes the horse is moving, and he can hear the creature huffing nervously. After a moment, the movement stops, and there's a distinct _shushing_ noise followed by a series of soft, calming pats. Eyebrows furrowed, Vasquez struggles to sit up, leaning against the soft corner of the bag as he listens closely.

There's no sunlight shining into the dark space of the saddlebag, not even the cool, early morning light that sometimes wakes him sooner than he wants. It must be night still, so why...?

Ears perked for even the slightest sound, Vasquez nearly jumps out of his skin when the saddlebag is opened abruptly, fabric rustling and strap buckles clinking. He snaps his gaze upward, blinking a few times at the sight of a hand illuminated only by distant moonlight and nearby campfire, something about it seeming different from his captor's but also strangely familiar.

Suddenly, another hand clutches at the opposite side of the bag, opening it further and revealing a face Vasquez had started to lose hope of ever seeing again.

"Güero?" His voice shakes in disbelief.

Above him, his friend's eyes open wide before softening with a tender gleam.

"Vas," Faraday breathes out, teeth showing as he smiles.

Despite the utterly hellish week he's had, Vasquez finds himself returning the smile, grinning from ear to ear at his companion. Faraday's expression is warm and bright, and it's the best thing Vasquez has seen for a very long while.

"Damn, it's good to see you," Faraday says, keeping his voice low.

"And you," Vasquez replies, relief crashing over him like a wave. Part of him worries that this must be a dream, but as the cool night air drifts into the saddlebag, and his injured limbs ache and throb, he knows he's awake.

"I wasn't sure we would see each other again," he admits.

Faraday nods in understanding.

"I was startin' to think I wouldn't find you," he says. "Even when I finally caught up with that asshole sleepin' by the fire over there—" He gestures toward him with a small tilt of his head. "—I still had my doubts. Thought maybe my only lead'd turn out to be wrong, but... here you are."

"Here I am," Vasquez reaffirms, expression growing thoughtful. "But how did you know?"

Faraday shrugs.

"When I couldn't find you anywhere, I knew something must've happened. Thinkin' back through the day, he was the only thing that stood out. I remembered him actin' strange, keepin' one hand shoved in his pocket. Didn't think anything of it at the time, but when I couldn't find you..."

He scratches at the back of his neck, looking guilty. Vasquez can't imagine why his friend should feel ashamed, but Faraday's next words make things clear.

"I shouldn't have let this happen." He bites his lip, eyes shifting to the side. "It's so easy for things to go downhill, and I wasn't even payin' attention. Vas, I'm so—"

"Don't do that." Vasquez shakes his head, refusing to hear an apology. "Don't blame yourself for the way my life has always been."

Faraday's eyes shift back, and he shakes his head as well.

"Doesn't matter how your life has always been," he says. "It shouldn't _be_ that way anymore... not with me here."

Vasquez regards Faraday with a calm expression. He knows his friend only wants to keep him safe, but this outpouring of guilt is doing nothing good for either of them. Reality can't be altered, and Vasquez hasn't once been tempted to blame Faraday for his current situation.

"I'm not a child," he says. "You don't need to look after me all the time."

Faraday's eyebrows furrow. "I know that. It's just—"

Vasquez holds up a hand, and Faraday closes his mouth.

"You were only trusting me to take care of myself. I never want that to stop." Gazing up at Faraday, he smiles again. "And you're here now... that's all that matters to me."

Slowly, Faraday returns the smile. While Vasquez doubts his words have totally dismissed any feelings of guilt, Faraday seems content enough.

He allows his mind to drift back to their previous topic, finding himself slightly confused.

"So that was it?" He asks. "All you needed to be sure he'd taken me?"

Faraday blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the change in subject. After a moment, he nods.

"Well... yeah," he replies. "I didn't suspect anybody else, and when I found out he'd left town in a rush, I had to go after him."

Something warm sparks in Vasquez's chest, softly prickling as it rises to his cheeks. He and Faraday have been traveling together for quite some time now, but despite their growing bond, he hadn't expected so much persistence from the man. He'd had his hopes, but knew the chances were slim, and felt it unfair to expect a relentless search from his friend.

Hearing how quickly Faraday had begun the pursuit of a man he'd only suspected, Vasquez regrets all of his doubts.

"Thank you... for working so hard to find me." He smiles, giving a fond, disbelieving shake of his head. "Sometimes it's hard to believe I have someone like you in my life."

Faraday waves a hand dismissively, though Vasquez doesn't miss the flicker of emotion in his eyes.

"Ain't nothin' you need to thank me for. I couldn't have slept at night, bein' so sure that bastard had you."

Vasquez blinks. "You speak like you know what kind of man he is, but how...?"

"Didn't much like him during our card game," Faraday says. "And he made off with you like you were nothin' but a talkin' souvenir, so I figure my judgment's sound."

The disdain in Faraday's voice is clear, and for a moment, they share an unspoken wave of contempt toward the man still sleeping by the fire. Then Faraday seems to focus. Eyes fixed on Vasquez, he lowers his hand into the saddlebag.

"Now let's get you outta here," he says.

His fingertips brush against Vasquez's left side. Having no time to prepare himself for the sudden physical contact, Vasquez doesn't even attempt to stifle the sharp hiss of pain that pulls through his teeth as Faraday's fingers nudge at his recently broken arm. He shies away from the touch and clutches at the fabric surrounding him.

"Shit—" Faraday bites out, pulling his hand back swiftly. "You alright?"

Vasquez nods, responding in a tight voice. "I'll be fine."

"What'd I—"

"Nothing, güero," he assures. "My arm is broken."

"Broken..." Faraday glances towards the camp, expression growing dark. In a low, rigid tone he asks, "That son of a bitch do it on purpose?"

"Sí." Vasquez slowly pushes himself back into his previous position, biting his lip when he feels the grating sensation of disturbed bone and muscle. "Leg, too."

Tilting his head up to look at Faraday, he's taken aback by the dangerous glint sitting heavily in the man's eyes.

While he certainly hadn't expected his friend to respond positively to the injuries, the unmistakable rage simmering just below the surface catches him off guard. Faraday's eyes flick toward his captor, the distant firelight doing nothing to infuse his gaze with any sort of warmth. His expression is cold and unforgiving, and suddenly Vasquez is reminded how very deadly the man towering over him can be.

A strange feeling courses through him at the sight of his companion's vengeful gaze. Something in him blazes, then swirls and dissipates in a soothing wave. He feels... safe. Safer than he's felt in a very long time. The fury burning in Faraday's eyes is unwavering and viciously protective, and Vasquez is overwhelmed by it, touched at the fierce show of attachment.

Knowing where Faraday's mind has likely headed, he speaks up. "You don't have to."

Faraday looks down at him, brow furrowing.

Vasquez continues. "Kill him, I mean. You want to, yes?"

Faraday doesn't answer, probably knowing he doesn't need to.

"I won't stop you from doing what you want, güero. But I don't need that. He's not worth the trouble."

That pulls Faraday out of his angry silence.

"I've killed men for less," he says. "Fuckin' bastard twisted your limbs up... I bet he thought it was funny. Why the hell shouldn't I shoot him?"

"Didn't say you shouldn't," Vasquez replies calmly. "But I'm satisfied letting that son of a bitch wake up tomorrow with no idea what happened to me."

Faraday still looks downright murderous, and Vasquez sighs, struggling to make his point clear.

"I just... need to leave," he says. "If you want to kill him, do it, but all I want do is get the hell out of here."

This seems to supply Faraday with some level of understanding, and while his expression remains cold and dangerous, he makes no move toward the camp. Sensing his conflict, Vasquez decides to speak again, conveying his most honest thought.

"I just want to go. Be back with you again.”

Faraday's eyes fall on him, and far more striking than the menace burning in his gaze is the way his expression seems to soften almost instantly. His eyes grow tender and warm, pushing past anger as he considers the words.

Nodding slightly, Faraday responds, "That's what we'll do, then."

Vasquez flashes a soft, tired smile. Pushing away from the corner of the saddlebag, he readies himself.

Faraday's hand returns above him, his other one following this time, and both reach down slowly. Hesitant fingers curl around Vasquez's back, doing their best to avoid further harm. A thumb presses softly into his middle, so softly that Vasquez can't help the fond ache in his chest; Faraday's careful touch is a far and welcome cry from the hands that have tormented him over the past week.

Placing one hand firmly on the Faraday's thumb, he nods up at him. In one, smooth motion, he's lifted up and laid out over the palm of Faraday's right hand, head resting at the base of his fingers.

The swiftness of the movement does very little to make it less painful, and Vasquez can't quite stifle the hitched whimper he lets out when his leg twists strangely coming into contact with Faraday's palm. He bites his lip, eyes squeezing shut.

" _Vas?_ "

Breathing in shakily, he responds in a tight voice, "Leg got twisted. I'm fine."

He pats Faraday's hand a few times in reassurance, and settles against the calloused, yet comfortably familiar palm.

Thankfully, Faraday doesn't waste time fussing over him, and Vasquez is lifted slowly out of the saddlebag. It's a relief, feeling the night air fully surround him, a vast expanse of stars greeting him, making him feel like he can really breathe again.

Faraday pulls him close to his chest, fingers curling protectively. Vasquez smiles, feeling like he's returned to someplace important, somewhere he's supposed to be.

Reaching out with one hand, he holds firmly to the fabric of Faraday's vest, pulling it close and resting his head against it for a moment. It's all he can do, given his injuries and his size, to show how grateful he is to be reunited with his companion.

Looking up, everything is a bit of a jumble, with Faraday's face partly obscured by shadow as well as the bandana tied around his neck, but Vasquez can clearly make out the large eyes focusing down on him.

Faraday's thumb curls inward, and Vasquez feels it touch down gently at the top of his head, giving his hair a few strokes. His cheeks burn hot at the blatant affection, and he looks slightly bewildered, his hair mussed and his face red. His gaze lifts to Faraday, halfway expecting to see some hint of teasing in the man's eyes, but all he finds is that same, striking tenderness. Faraday smiles down at him.

"I'm damn lucky I found you, Vas," he says softly, and they both know he isn't just talking about tonight.

Vasquez holds tighter to Faraday's vest, nodding. "Sí, güero. I'm lucky, too."

With that, they're on their way. Both of them are well aware of the long road to recovery lying ahead for Vasquez, but long roads aren't so daunting when you have a friend at your side.  


End file.
